inappropriate workplace relations
by Call-Me-Crazy.Cuz I Am
Summary: /in which Professor Regina Mills drinks tea, teaches Geometry, and sometimes gives her students nightmares, and Dr. Robin Locksley is the cool teacher who survives on coffee, specializes in English, and has a tumblr. They somehow manage to fall in love over the course of a school year.


**A.N. this is the teachers!au nobody asked for but I still wrote because plot bunnies are forceful creatures. Shhhhhh don't judge. **

**chapter 5 of_ like real people do_ is going to be making an appearance soon, so be on the look out! happy reading!**

* * *

_you kissed my lips like I was catching a flight; I said, "If I'm honest, I fell for you that first night."_

* * *

The first time Dr. Robin Locksley, Junior English, and Professor Regina Mills, Freshman Geometry, meet, he is ten minutes late for their Sex Ed presentation, and she is about to start throwing sharpened pencils at things, because there's a crowd of rowdy teenagers in her classroom and it's looking like she might have to teach them Sex Ed by herself.

Which she can certainly do, but which is most certainly not her job.

Her job at the moment is to run a joint presentation with some teacher from the Junior wing that she hasn't met before, an English teacher that, if he's anything like his fellow English department members, probably wears flip flops, short-sleeved button downs, and smells like coffee and sleep-deprivation.

Regina is not impressed, not amused, and on the scale of things that she is willing to wait for, her Sex Ed partner is at the very bottom.

She decides that she'll wait for two minutes, and then she'll steel herself, walk in, and teach some horny teenagers about sex.

She's about to do it, really, she is, but then Dr. Robin Locksley comes strolling down the hallway as if he's got all the time in the world, as if he's thirty minutes early instead of fifteen minutes late.

And honestly, she sees him, and the first thing that registers is attraction, because he is not short-sleeved button downs and coffee stains, he is six inches taller than her and long-sleeved shirts with the first two buttons undone and ties loosened around the collar, and he is-

Well. He's hot.

And after that, Regina remember that he's also late, so she gets angry again, but the underlying attraction is still humming beneath the surface.

He gets closer, his eyes flick down to meet hers, and Regina suddenly feels warm and shivery.

"You're late," she says bitingly, and she starts looking at anything but him. "Why are you late?"

"I had a personal emergency," he says easily. "Won't happen again. Robin Locksley, Junior English."

She eyes the hand he offers her disdainfully. "Professor Mills. Are you ready?"

"Ah, yes," he says, raising an eyebrow slightly at her dismissal. "Shall we?"

"Did you read the PowerPoint?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

Regina feels the agitation mix with panic within her, and she clenches her nails into her palms. "The one I sent you last night? The one I made, for the presentation?"

His face gets this stricken look, and he says, "I don't actually check my email that often..."

She feels like spitting her coffee all over him and his stupid attractive self, because clearly he's as much of a space case as the rest of his department. "How does one not check their email? You're a teacher."

"I told you, I had a personal emergency-"

"Last night_ and_ this morning?" Regina's skeptical. "Fine. I'll give the presentation. Just don't speak, and stay out of my way."

"Because you control the universe, is that it?" He says derisively. "Does that actually work? People do the things you tell them to?"

Regina feels herself slipping out of control, going red faced, and she curses her complexion. "When I'm _right_, generally, yes."

"Well, you're wrong now. We were told to give this presentation together."

"And you weren't prepared," she snaps. "So next time, if you don't want me to have to save both of our asses, do your part. Until then, yes, I get to dictate and you get to listen because I am the one who actually knows what the hell I am talking about."

She stalks into the room before he can reply, ignores the way the students look at her (because they've clearly heard every damn word of what's just transpired) and starts her presentation.

* * *

It's an absolute disaster.

He keeps interrupting her, making jokes about the material, making the students laugh and her get flustered, and by the end the kids all high five him on their way out and she slumps into her chair and puts her head in her hands.

(The nicknames the students have for her aren't really pleasant; they call her _Bitch_ and _Tight-Ass_ and great, now they'll add _Prude_ to the list. Fanfuckingtastic.)

He sits across from her. "You alright?"

"Do you care?" She shakes her head.

He hesitates.

And then he says, "Yes, actually, I do."

* * *

A word about Professor Regina Mills:

She likes math.

She has always liked math, ever since she was a little girl. Her mother, may she rot in hell, always told her it was unladylike and unattractive, that men didn't like women who were smarter than them, and how was she ever going to make a good match if all she did was worry about numbers and other inconsequential things?

When she was older, she started questioning why exactly her mother acted like it was medieval times and Regina making a "match", as she called it, was her only way to live a fulfilled life. Her mother basically lived like it was the 14th century, and she couldn't understand why her daughter would _"squander her chances on such unattractive and unfeminine things"._

Regina couldn't explain it; she just liked math.

She liked how it was something that could be learned, bettered, how it was formulative, and how you could have infinite equations that always ended up coming to the same thing. There's just enough adventure and safety in math, a perfect balance of everything. And, as shocking as this might have been for her mother, she didn't feel like math made her any less of a woman, as if that even mattered.

So she majored in mathematics, stopped talking to her mother.

(She likes to pretend that doesn't hurt her, and maybe, one day, it won't.)

* * *

When Regina gets to her classroom the next Monday, there is a mug full of coffee on her desk, a mug with a Shakespeare decal on it that's covered in quotes, and an English teacher in a chair in front of it, with a chorus of giggling students behind him.

"Dr. Locksley," she says briskly as she walks in, because if she's going to do this she's damn well going to have the upper hand. "What a...pleasure."

"Professor Mills," he greets her, leans leisurely back in his chair. "Have a good morning?"

"Until now," she says sweetly, and the students behind him _'ooooo'_ and laugh.

He clutches his heart in mock pain. "But I brought you coffee and everything."

She looks down, sees the mug on her desk. "I prefer tea."

"Are you mean on purpose, or is it just a gut reaction?" He raises an eyebrow, adds a small smile, but she can tell he's only half teasing.

"Being mean is a specialty of mine, I'm afraid," she says with another smile that's equal parts sweet and bitchy. "Now, is there something I can do for you, or are you taking up space in my classroom for no reason?"

He remains defiantly unbothered, keeps his hackles down, and Regina knows that he's not afraid of fighting with her, that he doesn't bite his tongue when it comes to her, so it kind of annoys her, a bit, that he's so nonplussed.

"Well, that's not something to be proud of, is it?" he says, and he gives her this look that's equal parts quizzical and amused and a little bit of everything, a little bit of eternity in his eyes.

But that's not true, Regina reminds herself, because eternity cannot be solved, and forever is not measurable. And she needs to remember that, needs to remember that she does not like Dr. Robin Locksley, that she does not like English department members or people who are late or things that she does not understand, things that she cannot quantify.

Regina needs to remember that she does not like him, and that seeing him like this, leaning back in the chair in front of her desk as if he could stop time and suspend them here, as if they have all the time the world could possibly offer them, will not change that.

She doesn't respond, simply gives him an unapologetic look and reaches for the tests she has to pass back.

(Halfway through first period, though, she caves and drinks the coffee.)

(Somehow, it's still warm.)

* * *

(Her students giggle once he leaves, and somehow, it doesn't bother Regina as much as it should.)

* * *

She doesn't see him for a week after that, which makes sense, because he's in the Upperclassmen Wing and she's in the 9th/10th, but which also means that she keeps his mug for an inordinate amount of time, which means that the next Monday morningfinds her at his classroom, mug with the Shakespeare decal and quotes half full of tea in one hand, class files in the other.

She stalks in on high heels, and when she woke up this morning, she felt like red lipstick and loose hair and maybe even a pencil skirt, and she walks in his open door and his eyes lock on her, well, she decides to let the fun begin.

(Which is crazy, absolutely ludicrous, but also absolutely necessary if she's going to do this, win this game.

Because it is a game; she hasn't been able to look at the damn mug without seeing his eyes and his non-measurable eternity, and sometimes she's found herself dancing over it with her fingers, replaying something he's says, and if he's done this to her, reduced her to this, then he's made the first move, started some game between them.

And Regina, she does nothing if not play to win.)

"Professor Mills," he says, after a moment, shaking his head slightly as if he's surprised, eyes just a little bit too determinedly on hers. "To what do I owe the - rather surprising - pleasure?"

"I was under the impression that you'd like your mug back," Regina says dryly, swirling the tea inside of it slightly. "Horrific though it may be."

"Horrific? That's perhaps a bit of an overstatement," he leans back in his chair, folds his hands behind his head. "Methinks the lady doth resent The Bard?"

"Only when combined with music from the early 2000s," She folds herself primly into the chair across from his desk, ignores the students behind them. '_My words bringeth all ye gentlefolk to the yard, and they're like, tis better than thine?_'"

"'_Verily, tis better than thine_,'" He finishes with a smirk. "Did you come purely to insult my mug?"

"Yes, I think I did," Regina smiles back, a bit wolfishly. "Tea might've also had something to do with it."

He adopts this faux-horrified look on his face. "Did you dishonor the Shakespeare mug with tea?"

"I did, indeed," Regina says cheerfully. "Passion Fruit."

She takes a large sip, keeps eye contact with him while she does it.

He leans forward, braces himself on his forearms. "Good, is it?"

"Delicious." She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, puts the mug on his desk. "It's about time for my first period, I should be going. Have a nice day, yeah?"

"Yeah, you too," he says, and he takes the mug and drinks, keeps eye contact with her, and she thinks that now's maybe a good time to make an exit.

So she leaves, leaves him with a half-empty mug full of tea with a lipstick stain on one side of it, and if there's an extra bounce in her high-heeled step, well, it's just because she's pretty sure she won this round.

* * *

"So, Dr. L," one of the juniors, Victor, says during his first period, while he's proofreading essays. "What's with you and the Professor?"

"Something that clearly has a lot to do with your assignment," he says dryly. "Definitely something that has so much to do with your assignment, which you are currently not doing. You know? The one in front of you, with the semi-colons and the characterization?"

"Yeah, okay," Victor says, "But really, what's happening? And don't say nothing. You gave her the Shakespeare mug. You never give anyone the Shakespeare mug. Do you even use the Shakespeare mug?"

"I'll make you a deal, Victor," Robin says, looking up from his papers for the first time. "Finish your assignment, and ask me that question in perfect Shakespearean English, and maybe I'll answer you."

Victor grins. "Challenge accepted, Dr. L. Challenge accepted," he says, and he goes back to his assignment.

Robin, he goes back to his proofreading, and every now and then his eyes flick to the mug, with its lipstick stain and its Shakespeare decal, and in those moments all he sees is her in the chair across from him, seated like a queen, and he gets this indescribable urge, to run his fingers through her hair, slide his hands through it and make her laugh, not just with her eyes, but with her smile, her cheeks, her entire body, her entire being.

* * *

A word on Dr. Robin Locksley:

He likes kids, and he likes English, and he has always wanted to be a teacher.

Words have always fascinated him, their combinations and their inflections and their impacts, the way they can sooth and inflame and reshape an everything, the way they contain little infinities in random collections.

Robin, he likes making his own infinities, sticking them down on paper and eternalizing things.

(See, Robin has lost a lot, and he won't tell you this, but he is maybe afraid of losing more, so he likes to make them permanent, like to write them down and save them.)

And math and science and history, they have endings and beginnings and breaking points, but words, words are constant and infinite at the same time, like stars.

And Robin loves words, loves English, loves his job and his students, loves his son and he loves his life, but about a month ago he walked down a hallway and saw a woman, and about two weeks ago the same woman sat down in front of his desk and left lipstick on his mug (and Victor's right, he doesn't use that mug often and certainly doesn't share it), all loose dark hair and red lips, and somehow she reminds him of the literary heroines of old, good and mischief and strength and power and bad, wrapped up in this sheath of cold and elegance.

Which is crazy.

(Another word about Robin, though: he doesn't really believe in crazy.)

* * *

When Regina gets to her classroom the next morning, the Shakespeare mug is back on her desk, full of coffee, with a napkin underneath it, and on the napkin in the almost-unreadable scrawl characteristic of Dr. Locksley, is a line from a novel ("_And truly, what greater gift is there in this life, than that of the word and the pen? For when man can write himself, man can know himself"_) and a smiley face.

Regina fights to keep a smile off of her own face, and picks up the coffee.

(It's black, but somehow it tastes sweet in her mouth.)

* * *

And the morning after that, in the middle of Robin's desk is the mug, filled almost to the brim with Passion Fruit tea, and the napkin underneath it has a geometrical equation on it.

_Alright, you're on_, it says. _What's the measure of angle x? _

_The measure of thing belongs solely to the thing itself,_ he writes back. _None can know that have not lived. _

He puts the napkin back on her desk while she's in the workroom, and maybe-possibly-definitely whistles his way back to his class.

* * *

And soon, it becomes a thing, because it's a game, a game that, at its core, is who can hold out long enough, stay away for long enough, pretend for long enough, and, well, they are both such competitive people.

Like, fast forward a month, and the mug is on Regina's desk, full of coffee, and the napkin underneath it says, _Eternity was in our lips and eyes, _in his bold handwriting.

The next day, it's on Robin's, full of tea, and the napkin simply says, _Eternity is not mathematically quantifiable. _

In the corner, it also says, _lay off the Shakespeare_.

* * *

"And he's so self-satisfied," Regina rants, angrily stirring the pot of noodles before her. She's home, with her roommate (a preschool teacher named Mary Margaret, for whom Regina has grudging affection), and she's bitching about Dr. Locksley because the man just will not get out from under her skin. "He wears this smirk like it's an article of clothing and he just, god, I just want to punch him in his stupid Shakespearean face!"

"I think you like him," Mary Margaret says nonchalantly, and Regina lets out an indignant squeak. "Also, you're being mean to the pasta."

"I don't like him," she spits back. "He's insufferable."

"How big are his feet?"

"Does it matter?" Regina gapes.

"Oh, trust me," Mary Margaret says, waggling her eyebrows. "_It matters_."

"Oh my god," Regina says to the noodles. "Everyone I know is certifiably insane."

"Look, if you like him, then you should know if he's got a big-"

"_Well I don't like him so it doesn't matter_," Regina says hurriedly, cutting Mary Margaret off.

"Uh huh," Mary Margaret winks at her. "You keep telling yourself that."

* * *

She is Professor Regina Mills, Freshman Geometry, and he is Dr. Robin Locksley, Junior English.

She is mugs full of tea and he is mugs full of coffee; his napkins quote novels and poems and plays and his own voice, and hers are full of mathematical equations and snark.

He is English, and she is Geometry; he believes in the infinite nature of language, and she believes in the finite systems of math, and one day she wakes up with butterflies in her stomach, and realizes that maybe this thing between them has gone a little further than just a game.

* * *

"I don't understand how you can not like Dickens," Robin says animatedly, leaning over his desk. "Dickens is _Dickens_."

"He typecasts all of his female characters," Regina argues back, just as animated. "And his books are dry, and drawn out and complicated."

"That's what makes them classics!" Robin throws his hands in the air. "If people wanted simplicity, they'd read the newest vampire love story hitting the shelves. Dickens is complicated and intertwined because he can form a bloody storyline, because his novels are beyond surface, they attack a deeper part of the psyche."

"You know we're talking about Dickens, not Jesus, right?" Regina says dryly. "You can control your fangasm."

"If you think that was me fangasming, then let's not even talk about Oscar Wilde, then."

* * *

"You're doing this on purpose," Regina says, exasperated. "I teach fourteen year olds this math."

"There's a reason I didn't bloody major in bloody mathermatics," he pretends to snap back at her. "And it's because it's soul sucking."

"Oh, wow, that was nice."

"Oh, come on, where's the adventures in equations? Where's the risk, the creativity?"

Regina looks at him a moment, doesn't say anything, and he starts to think that maybe he's offended her or something, but then she pulls her chair next to him and says, "You know the triangle sum thereom, right?"

"Indeed."

"Okay, so you know that the sum of the angles of any triangle, ever, is 180 degrees. You know that for any triangle that will ever be created, for all triangles that have already been created, for big triangles and small triangles and yellow triangles and blue triangles and isocoles and scalene and equilateral and equiangular triangles, for triangle-shaped cobble stones and triangle traffic signs, the sum of those angles is 180. For any triangle, ever. That is what math has. That...structured etertinity. Contained eternity."

"Is that what you think? That life should be governed by structure and order?"

"I think that chaos is a part of human nature," she shrugs. "But it can be limited. Of course it can."

"But should it be, is the question?"

"Let me put it this way," She leans against the desk. "Life is chaotic and complicated and ungovernable, and sometimes, somehow, we take a look into that black hole of crazy and we find structure, order. And that structure and order? That's math. Not fate or destiny."

He looks back at her, leans forward slightly, sips from the mug. "_There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of by your philosophy._"

She groans. "What did I say about the Shakespeare?"

* * *

"So, Dr. L," Ruby, one of his seniors says to him as she enters the classroom. "What's the deal with you and Professor Stick-In-The-Mud?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know a Professor _Stick-In-The-Mud_," He says easily. "If you're referring to Proffessor Mills, I'd recommend you call her by her correct name."

Ruby raises an eyebrow. "Oh-_kay_. Professor Mills. What's the deal? What exactly is happening here?"

"Interesting question, Ruby. In fact, that's pretty much the same thing I asked myself while grading this class's essays." A collective groan comes from the students. "Remember, people: if you don't feel like mike-dropping after you read the last sentence of your conclusion, _it wasn't powerful enough_."

"Is that why all your emails sound like rap battles?" comes Regina's voice from the doorway; his students all exchange knowing looks, and he starts to smile.

"Come back for even more Shakespearean quotes? I know how much you enjoy them."

"No, I thought I'd give you a break from your insufferably stubborn usage of them," She shoots back. "I'm here about a jacket, actually. Can I borrow one?"

"That depends, are you planning on using any DNA fragments on it to clone me?"

"Because the world needs_ that_. No, the AC just broke in my room, so it's like the Artic in there."

"Ah," he nods. "Sure. Leather, quilted, or plaid?"

"I have selection? Tell me, when did you start running the men's section of H&amp;M from behind your desk?"

"Well, it's benefiting you, isn't it? So maybe we shouldn't snark about it," He says, faux-offense in his voice. "Alright, then, I'll pick for you. You seem a leather girl, I think."

"I am up for anything that stops me from having blue fingers," Regina snorts. "A cold heart is enough."

"Oh, shh, I've seen you rant about standarized tests," He says dissmissively. "Honestly. No one that passionate about a scantron sheet is heartless."

"I must be the first, then," She smiles slightly. "I'd like to thank the Academy-"

"Oh, bugger off," He snorts, coming up to give her the jacket. "Here you go, then."

She reaches for it, but he tuts and gently pushes her hands away. "What're you doing, what kind of gentleman do you think I am? Put out your arms and move your bloody hands, I'm putting it on for you."

"You're a gentleman? I thought you were just pushy," Regina deadpans, but she sticks her arms out with a long-suffering but undeniably fond sigh. He gives her a dimpled grin and slides the coat on her, zips it up halfway and laughs.

"See, that wasn't that hard, was it, love? By the way, you've still got the mug, yeah?"

"It's sitting on my desk, full of coffee," Regina gives a little shudder. "It's painful for me to see, honestly."

"You love it."

"You're delusional," She smiles sweetly and begins to walk out. "Thanks for the jacket."

Once she's gone, Robin turns back to his essays and his students, only to see identical open-mouthed expressions on all of their faces.

"What's gotten into you lot, then?"

"Dr. L," Ruby says slowly. "You totally just flirted with Professer Stick-In-The-Mud."

* * *

As she leaves, Ruby tells him that she "_totally_ ships it", and Robin spends the first two minutes of his work hour staring at the empty space on his coatrack and wonders when exactly seeing Regina Mills in his clothes became something that actually happens to him.

* * *

Regina stops by after lunch to return his coat, and she's barely through with saying "Thanks for letting me use it-" when he blurts out, "I have a son."

It's like the world slows down and becomes encased in marmalade and maple syrup and caramel, with how slow he feels it's all going; it feels like every blink takes an hour, and he finds himself carefully watching her face, which she's schooled into a guarded expression.

"Oh," she says, and her voice has just the slightest shake to it, faint enough that he wouldn't have picked up on it if that same voice hadn't haunted his dreams for the last week and a half. "Oh."

She looks down at her fingers, which are wrapped tightly around the Shakespeare mug and white-decaled. "So. Are you, um. Are you married, then?"

"Oh, no," He assures her, the words clumsy and tripping on his tongue. "Oh, bloody hell, no. Absolutely not, I've just got my boy. It's just the two of us."

"Okay," she says, and her voice sounds a bit relieved, her fingers less tense around the handle of the mug. "How old is he?"

She sounds-

calm, actually, calm and even-tempered and not freaking out, not angry and storming out, and one look at her eyes shows that they're not guarded or angry or disgusted.

She just seems interested.

Which.

Is unexpected and kind of lovely, actually.

"He's four," he says, and she smiles. "Wreaking havoc at his daycare, I get calls almost everyday. One would think that after one time he'd learn he can't eat the glue, but apparently the little lad's got a taste for it."

"Well, I mean, better glue than meth," she says, voice and face completely serious. "There are worst things for him to be addicted to. Like. _The Real Housewives of Orange County_."

She keeps up the serious face for maybe thirty more seconds, and then she starts laughing, and he starts laughing, and then she's sloshing a tea-full cup on top of his desk and plunking down on the seat across from him.

"What's his name?" she asks, and Robin feels his heart swell with affection.

"Roland," he replies, and her answering smile isn't shy or forced.

"I like it," she says, and he feels like maybe what he's feeling deserves to be written down. "It's a very nice name."

* * *

Sometimes, Dr. Robin Locksley goes just a little bit crazy, and he starts thinking about things.

Things like the way the dark waves of Regina's hair fall against her neck when she wears it down, things like the way her eyes sparkle when she talks about circumscribing around a point and the distance formula, things like the fact that she drinks Passion Tea like it's water, but her favorite is peppermint, and he starts wanting to do crazy things, things he hasn't even thought about since he divorced Marian, and it's.

It's a bit creepy, really, and he knows this, he promises he does, it's just-

Dr. Robin Locksley wants a lot of things, so many things; he is a creature of yearning, as most writers are. He wants more, all the time- searches for an eternity forever just out of his reach.

But then she walks in and he isn't searching anymore, because she's it- she's the heroine of the great poets, she's what they meant, she's the muse of Neruda and Shakespeare and Byron, she's Dickens's Estella and Austen's Elizabeth,and she has no bloody idea. And his palms are sweaty and his heart is beating and dammit, he's much too old for this. These hormones and emotions, he should have control over them by now, he should have control over himself by now.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't, because the chaotic swirls of thought and feeling are what feed his creativity, they're what drives him to be who he is, and the thing about Dr. Robin Locksley is this:

He is forever searching for the great perhaps, forever yearning for the spot where the sun falls, just behind the horizon, but the truth is he never wants to actually get there. He wants the chase, but never dreams for the destination. Because really, that's sort of what all writers want: they write about lives they have no intention of living, about places they don't really want to get to. It's a bit easier, after all, to long for something you don't have than to appreciate it once it's yours.

And Professor Regina Mills is Geometry and tea and red lipstick stains, and he's perhaps a little too into her, honestly, for it to be appropriate.

* * *

"So you'll never believe what I just heard," he says the next Monday, sliding into the seat across from her in the library. She looks up at him, fondly exasperated, over the rim of her book.

"Pray tell," she deadpans. "I doubt you'll go away until you do."

"I love it when you talk so sweetly to me," he says cheerily, and she rolls her eyes. "But, anyway, apparently the entirety of the junior class is convinced that we're together."

She chokes on the mouthful of water she's just taken. "_What_, now?"

"Yep. Heard it with my own ears," Robin shakes his head with a small smile. "They think we're dating."

"They-" she breaks off, rubs her temples. "If they were half as invested in their schoolwork as in their_ ships_-"

"I _knew_ you knew what they were called!" Robin crows loudly, getting the librarian to send them a stern look, and the students around them to giggle. "I knew it was total _bullshit _whenyou asked me to explain what shipping was!"

"Oh, please, shout bullshit louder, won't you?" she shakes her head. "It's like you're trying to get fired, I swear."

"Oh, no, love, I'd miss you too much." He leans back in his chair, fold his arms behind his head. "Now, why'd you ask? Why bother, if you already knew what it was?"

"You're _so cute_ when you explain things," she says in a baby voice and he rolls his eyes. "And why did you even know?"

"I'm a highschool English teacher, love, how could I not?" he waves it off. "And, well. So. You think I'm cute, then?"

"Dear god, Locksley, don't start that," she gives a faux-groan.

"You think I'm _cute_," he singsongs, and she glares.

"It's times like these when I remember you have a six-year-old and I become afraid for the poor kid's future."

"He's got a stuffed giraffe named Napoleon, Regina, concern for his future is not a new thing."

"You're so calm about it," Regina notes with wonder. "Your _four-year-old _named his favorite stuffed animal Napoleon, and you say it like you're talking about the weather."

"Beautiful day out, innit?"

"Smug son of a-"

"Language, Regina, this is a_ learning environment_-"

* * *

Professor Mills and Dr. Locksley are friends.

Very, very, very good friends.

This does not mean, however, that they don't fight, and when they do it's loud and angry; the mug stays with whoever has it at the time, and it's all angry looks in the hallways and pop quizzes that tank a few student's grades.

"Locksley," she spits at him as they brush shoulders, the two inches between them filled with hostility.

"Professor Mills," He nods back, and they're pissed (because she made an insensitive crack about English majors and he said something about her never trusting anybody, and it's all just snarky jabs that hurt a bit more than they should), but when their shoulders brush, there's still a spark.

(And here's the thing, about Professor Mills and Dr. Locksley; they fight, and they fight like hell. They fight long and they fight hard, and sometimes, they even fight dirty -because who can forget that time he switched her parking lot duty with an eighth grade teacher's, and she had to watch Professor Jones and Professor Swan make eyes at each other _"for an entire hour, Locksley, so fuck you very much, you __jerk__"_\- but he buys her muffins and books and takes her lunch duty to apologize, and she puts the mug back on his desk with a trig ratio problem and chamomile tea, and she buys him lunch and finally returns his jacket.

And they do this friendship thing, this _laughing-talking-coexisting platonically_ thing, and they do it so damn good, but there's this nagging bit of something inside of them, this bit that remembers when Robin's hand lingers on her back and when Regina's eyes stay on his lips maybe a bit too long, this bit that remembers that they are-

very, very, very good friends.

But that's not all they are. And it's not all they're meant to be.)

* * *

The very first time Dr. Robin Locksley kisses Professor Regina Mills, he's taken a break from auditioning students for the fall play he's been put in charge of (because it's _Hamlet_, and who better to direct it than the English professor with the Shakespeare mug?), and she's just brought him a six pack of 5-hour Energies.

"You angel among men," he says when she comes in, and she snorts.

"Why'd you even sign up for this? You hate it when schools do Shakespeare plays," she notes. "You say it vehemently every time the board asks you about it."

"I do not hate when schools do Shakespeare plays. I hate it when schools do Shakespeare plays _badly_, which they always do, because it's _Shakespeare,_ for god's sake."

"Careful, Robin, you almost sound pompous."

"You'd know, wouldn't you, that's pretty much a constant state for you."

"Mean words from someone I just bought out the entire stock of energy drinks at Walgreens for," Regina deadpans. "If you pour one of these into your coffee again, I'm sending you to rehab. Then again, you might need it after this. I heard they put Swan and Jones on stage production?"

"That they did," he nods. "And the _will-they-or-won't-they_ is killing me. Do they have bagels in rehab? Because if they have bagels in rehab, you can-"

"Stop talking. Drink the high-calorie high-sugar heart-attack-in-a-bottle I just bought for you. Audition some damn kids. Improve the future."

"Thank you," he says, and when she leans down and drops the bottle on his desk, he presses a kiss to her cheek.

And it's, well, it's a reflex, if he's honest; he's become extremely close to Regina, and he doesn't think about it; it's not a huge, drastic, emotional thing, it's something he just does to say thank you.

"Oh," she says, maybe an octave higher than usual, and normally he'd tease her but he's too busy wondering what the hell he just did. "Oh, um. You're welcome."

She turns around on her heel and walks out, shoves her hands in the pocket of her peacoat, and he watches her until she's gone, and then he closes his eyes and breathes deeply.

"I'm fucked," he says to the empty room. "I'm truly, honestly, and utterly fucked."

* * *

Regina makes it about twenty steps down the hallway before her hand comes up to her cheek, cold fingers pressing against the still-tingling skin on her cheek, and it's much longer before her heartbeat finally slows down.

* * *

And there's a little bit of underlying awkwardness, afterwards, of course there is; his lips touched her skin, and it was quick and platonic and not at all meant to be anything but a_ thank-you-for-buying-me-caffeinated-beverages-you-make-life-possible _type thing.

But of course, of course it can't stay like that, because her skin was soft and his lips were slightly chapped and platonic things never stay as such, not with sexual tension the likes of which _they've_ got going for them.

* * *

Robin walks into his classroom early, one morning, and he sees Victor and Ruby engaging in very enthusiastic tongue/lip gymnastics against his bookshelves; the first thing he does is swear, because are they _serious_? _Honestly_?

"_Really_, now?" he says, startling them apart, and they're red-cheeked and puffy-lipped and look suitably mortified. "I'm waiting for the beautiful explanation I know must accompany this. I have a feeling it's going to be _quite_ thrilling."

"_Dr. L_," Ruby squeaks, and it's only when she starts frantically buttoning up her shirt that Robin notices their current state of undress, and-

_oh_.

oh, no.

_oh, but no._

He turns around, quickly, because this is already ten different kinds of inappropriate, and starts mentally counting to ten. "_In my bloody classroom_, you two, _honestly_-"

"We're so sorry, Dr. L-"

"_You'd better be_\- bloody hell, I _use those bookshelves_!"

"We_ know_!" Victor says, sounding appropriately remorseful. "You normally don't come in until later-"

"_Normally_? Have you two_ done this before_?"

There's a silence that confirms all Robin needs to know, and he feels like slamming his head against the wooden door post.

"I am going to walk outside," he says slowly. "And I am going to try and erase this image from my mind. You two are going to continue dressing, and then follow me outside, so we can take a little fieldtrip down to the Dean's office and have a conversation I am already dreading. And for godsake's, _Lysol the bloody cabinet_."

He goes back outside, clutching his files and feeling as though he needs a shower, and he's not there for more than two minutes before he sees Regina coming down the hallway, Shakespeare mug and napkin in her hands.

"Well, this is a surprise, Mr. I'm-Never-Here-Before-First-Bell," she begins, but then she gets a good look at him and backtracks. "Why do you look like you've just seen your grandmother in lingerie?"

"Because I just caught Ruby and Victor having sex. In my classroom. Which apparently is a thing. That they do. _On multiple occasions_."

Her mouth falls open.

"_Exactly_," he mouths. "I am changed, I am disgusted, I need _mind soap_-"

"As gross as this is," Regina begins slowly. "And trust me, I get how gross this is, because it's pretty damn gross, but all that considered, you sound like a tumblr post."

"I could _make_ a tumblr post about this!" he closes his eyes. "Regina, I just saw Victor and Ruby having sex. Against my bookshelves."

"You have a tumblr?"

"So _not_ the point here."

"You want a tissue?" Regina snarks, and he opens one eye to glare. "Breathe deep and play through it, Robin."

"As much as I want to do that, I am currently having flashbacks of perhaps the most traumatizing event I've witnessed-"

"Did you not see your son's birth? Because childbirth tops the traumatizing event list, hands down." She shakes her head disparagingly, hands him the cup of coffee. "It's inappropriate and gross, but c'mon, Robin, you've had sex before."

"In my teacher's classroom?_ Fucking no_."

Regina rolls her eyes. "You're a baby."

He makes the most adorable face and opens his eyes fully, and Regina misses what he says because the morning light comes through the window and hits his eyes just as his mouth quirks up in a smile, and Regina gets this jolt of affection in her stomach, this jolt of affection and then something more, a desire to wake up next to him and see that smile against her sheet, or across the breakfast table, to feel him smile against her mouth, her skin.

The door opens next to her; a sheepish Victor and Ruby file out, and Robin sends her a look that makes her want to laugh and sends another jolt in her stomach.

"Alright, you two," he says, shaking his head. "Let's go, shall we?"

"Dr. L-" Ruby begins timidly, and Robin shakes his head.

"Ruby, I respect both your right to speak and your opinion, but I'm currently doing a mind cleanse and purge, and whatever explanation you're about to offer is just going to flash me back to something I'd very much like to never think of again."

He walks down the hallway, shaking his head, and Ruby and Victor trail after him; when he gets to the corner, he gives her a 'save me' look, and she finally puts a name to the feeling coiling in her stomach.

And she is in love with him.

God, fuck, shit, damn, is she in love with him.

* * *

'I'm in love with Robin," she says into the purple throw pillow on their couch that night, laying prone across the cushions and Mary Margaret's lap.

Mary Margaret cards her fingers through Regina's hair and says, "Jay-Z and Beyoncé are married."

"Literally what the fuck does that have to do with anything," Regina says, and Mary Margaret laughs.

"As long as we're listing things that literally everybody knows," she says. "You're in love with Robin. Jay-Z and Beyonce are married. North West is now both a name and a direction. Orange is a color and a fruit."

"Shut the hell up," Regina moans into the pillow, and Mary Margaret rubs her back soothingly.

* * *

Regina is in love with Robin.

She sits on this revelation for two weeks, trying and failing to come up with a game plan, and by then he's started getting busier and busier, with the play and his juniors and their college applications and essays and his son, who's moved on from glue and is now eating paper, and that's good, right? It's good that he's busy and they don't get to talk much, anymore, that they communicate once again through napkins and texts and emails, because it means that they've both got time to think.

He thinks about her, thinks about how he's swimming in piles of paperwork and scripts and yet all he wants to do is introduce her to his son and take her out for breakfast, not dinner; how he's a grown man with a job and a child, a grown man in love (because that's what this is, he's not even going to bother denying it) with his friend, his co-worker. It's bloody ridiculous, is what it is, and yet it's all he wants to think about, her lips pressed against his and her hair across his pillow and he feels every bit of whatever this is in every bit of his body.

God, he can feel her in his fingers, itching to touch her and write about her, and it exhilarates and terrifies him.

And she, she thinks about how the_ hell _she's supposed to explain this to anyone, least of all herself. How the hell is she supposed to explain how she, Professor Regina Mills, with cold fingers and poor maternal relationships and a dependence on mathematical stability, started feeling this for a man who quotes Bukowski and directs high school Shakespeare plays and has a child.

Because it feels like there's a mini-universe in her ribcage, between her lungs and below her heart, and it's expanding at constant rate equivalent to the number of vibrations in his laugh, constantly expanding and pushing her heart up into her throat until she has to swallow around the blockage of emotion and every word that comes out is almost _"I love you."_

* * *

_Hamlet_ opens on a Friday night; Robin gets her and Mary Margaret tickets, and she gets there early so she can come backstage and wish him luck.

It's good she does, because he looks a mess, when she gets there; he's carding his fingers through his hair and pacing and he looks like he's a step away from jumping or flying, and a coin toss is deciding which.

"Bloody fucking hell," he says, and she watches as he wears holes into the wooden floor of the director's room. "This is all- this is all going to either go down in flames or in history, innit, and I can't tell which fucking one it'll be."

"You're bringing out your British," she teases, and when he keeps pacing she grows serious. "The play is going to be great."

"Let's all hope to bloody hell," he growls, actually growls, and she should not be as attracted to him right now as she is. "Something's going around, a cold or something, and everyone's got it; Killian and Emma are just painful to be around, honestly, how in love and oblivious can you _be_, and to top it all bloody off, the fucking _board's_ on my arse about-"

The half hour timer on his phone cuts him off, and he gives it a dark look before sighing.

"You're going to be great, Robin," she says, and he looks up at her.

"You think so?" he asks, and she nods.

"God, yes. There's no room on Team Regina for failures."

He laughs, and then leans forward and wraps her in a hug, warm and solid and she can practically feel the ground drop out from under her when he says, against her hair, "Thank you, Regina. For everything."

He pulls back, and his face is wide and open and earnest and he looks so tired and so childishly excited, at the same time, and that's it: Regina feels physically incapable of not kissing him.

Physically.

Incapable.

So she does; she leans forwards and presses her lips to his, and he makes a surprised noise, for a moment, but then he's kissing her back, hard and strong, and god, it feels like drawing lines that don't exist on the coordinate plane, feels like quantifying eternity.

(Because, see, Regina's been feeling like there's a mathematical equation, in which she and Robin are variables, that could be created to model the relationship between them and this kiss?

This kiss is the solution.)

They only break apart when his phone starts buzzing; he says, "That'll be Killian, probably. They'll be wondering where I am."

"Oh," she breathes. "Oh, right, of course. I should probably go get a seat."

"Yeah," he says, but when she walks away he grabs her arm.

"Regina," he says, eyes locking on hers. "I'll talk to you after the show, yeah?"

She gives him a small smile.

"Yeah," she says.

* * *

The show goes off beautifully; Victor, who's been let off suspension and probation in order to play Hamlet (which took a shit ton of groveling on Robin's behalf) gives a performance that brings most of the audience to actual tears and Ruby to sexual frustration, and Ashely and Sean (Ophelia and Horatio, respectively) own it, the twisted unrequited love theme Robin threw in coming across beautifully. Regina sits next to Mary Margaret in the fifth row, in the blocked out section reserved for faculty and friends of faculty, in one of the chairs marked Director's Guest.

And in front of her, there are six more chairs marked Director's Guest, filled by a collection of peple, in the lap of one of which is a little brown-curled boy, who keeps bouncing up and down and giggling, and Regina knows, she knows who he is.

But she has no idea who any of the other six are.

Everyday, she is practically drowning in the feelings she has for this man, and she realizes that there are six people sitting in the row in front of her that care enough about him to make an appearance at a high school Shakespeare play, six people he trusts with his kid, that his kid trusts, and she has no idea who any of them are.

It's not that she wants to know every little aspect of his life, or who the people in his life are, but she realizes that while she knows things about him, little things like his favorite color, and big things, like that he doesn't talk to his parents anymore, because they don't recognize English as an actual profession and he doesn't recognize rich snob as an acceptable personality type, there's a shit ton of things she doesn't actually knw.

So she sits, in the auditorium behind a row of people she doesn't know, and she gets scared.

Because she doesn't know this part of him, and that's okay, because she doesn't have to know every single bit of him, but it reminds her of the things he doesn't know about her, and it's just.

It's another reminder that they fell into whatever this is across desks and through notes on napkins. Not in the real world.

When the play ends, she doesn't leave, because it might feel like cold liquid coiling up in her stomach, but, what, is she supposed to just walk out on him after the success of the play that's practically his baby?

She might be cold, and scared, and way too kiss-shocked and emotionally vulnerable, but before any of this, before anything, they were friends.

So.

She stays, and afterwards, during the cast mingling session, she and Mary Margaret finds him, surrounded by the six people and his son and Swan and Jones.

"Hey," she says, tapping his arm gently, pulling him out of the conversation. "What'd I say? It went amazing!"

"It did, didn't I?" he grins, and he looks so unbelievably happy. "It went fucking amazing."

"It's like I said," she teases. "No room on Team Regina for failures."

"Right, as usual," he laughs, and he extends his hand to Mary Margaret. "Hello, there. I'm-"

"Robin," Mary Margaret accepts his hand with a smirk. "I'm Mary Margaret. Trust me, I've heard of you."

"Have you, now?" Robin says, eyebrow quirking up. "I'm quite frightened."

"What do you think, Regina, should he be frightened?" Mary Margaret says, evil look in her eyes, and Regina wonders, not for the first time, who allowed her to work with children.

"Regina?" someone says, turning around and taking notice of her. "I'm sorry, Robin, this is the Regina you've been mooning about, yeah?"

"Oh god," Robin says, half-joking, half-serious, and Mary Margaret and Regina exchange panicked (Regina) and triumphant (Mary Margaret) looks. "John, lay off, will you?"

"Oi, Tuck!" the man, John, calls. "Look at who I've got! Finally stumbled across that bird Robin's been going mental over."

"Did you really?" the man in the cross necklace, Tuck, turns around and makes his way over to them. "Hullo, then. It's a pleasure to meet you; god knows this one has said enough about you I feel like I already have."

"Alright, then," Robin says hastily. "Let's be careful, yeah, before one of you says something I have to kill you for."

"David!" Tuck calls, and the tallest man, with bright blue eyes and blond hair looks over. "Get your arse over here, we've finally found Robin's lady friend!"

"You must be Regina," he says, and god, yeah, Regina's feeling a little bit overwhelmed, because she knows none of these people, absolutely nothing about any of them, and they all seem to know her. "I'm David."

She takes his outstretched hand, shakes it. "Hello," she says, and he gives a crinkly-eyed smile.

And then he turns to Mary Margaret, and something in his face just goes soft, and Regina can practically see the moment he falls for her.

_Oh_, she thinks. _Oh, this'll be fun_.

"Hi," he says, and Mary Margaret blushes. "I'm David."

"Mary Margaret," she replies, and their handshake lingers a bit too long and yeah, this is going to be fun.

"Give her some space, you animals," Robin says, and she's bizzarely grateful. "Poor woman's been ambushed by you lot, give her a second to breath."

John gives a good natured groan but steps back, as do Tuck and David.

"We're going out for dinner, after this," Tuck says, looking at her closely. "Celebrate Robin making it through this, and all. Care to join?"

"Don't pressure her-" Robin begins, but Regina cuts him off.

"We've actually got to get home," she shrugs. "I just came to tell you how good it all went, is all. Have a good break."

Thankfully, Mary Margaret gets the moment and says nothing, makes more starry-eyed conversation with David.

"Give me a minute, yeah?" he says immediately. "I'll walk you out."

"Or you could not," she replies. "Stay here. Bask in your success. I've got to-"

She doesn't get to finish, because a tiny hand tugs on her coat, and a high voice says, "Miss Regina?"

She looks down, and it's him, the little boy, and he's got bright brown eyes and tousled curls and he looks like his father. There's absolutely no denying who this boy is and who he belongs to.

"Oh," she says, because she was not planning for this and it's kind of a bit of a shock, honestly. "Oh. Hello."

"Hello," he says politely. "I'm Roland."

"That's a very nice name," she says, and when she looks at him Robin has an inexplicable look in his eyes. "I like it a lot."

"Thank you," Roland says, and then he tugs on her hand, pulls her down to his level and when they're eye to eye he takes a handful of her hair, because personal space means nothing to six-year-olds. "I like your hair."

"That's very sweet of you," Regina winces, because god, he's tugging on her hair hard. "I like yours, too. It's very curly."

Roland nods and grins. "Papa says it's curly because I don't eat vegetables."

"Your Papa says some silly things sometimes, huh?"

"Yeah," Roland agrees solemnly, and Regina laughs. "He says you're pretty."

"Oh," Regina says, because. Oh. Seriously, does everyone here know her? "Well, that's another silly thing, isn't it?"

"No," Roland shakes his head. "It's not silly, because he's right."

"You're a little gentleman," Regina laughs, because he is, he's adorable. "And it's been very nice talking to you. I'm sorry, but I've got to go."

"Okay," he says, smiling at her. "You should come to our house sometimes. Papa likes talking about you. He gets happy when he does."

_Oh-kay._

Regina smiles at him, and he releases her jacket and runs back into the circle.

"And that was Roland," Robin shakes his head and laughs. "Little lad's a bit mental, but I couldn't love him more."

"I can tell," Regina smiles back at him, and John lets out an 'awww'.

"That's probably my cue to go," Regina says, pulling away. "But, again, congratulations. It went really, really, really well."

"I'll walk you out," he says again, already shrugging back on his coat.

"You really don't have to do that."

"Oh, I know I don't have to," he says. "But I want to, and I wouldn't if you really didn't want me to, but you don't, so I'm going to. Shall we?"

She looks to Mary Margaret, but her helpfulness has expired; she drags her eyes away from David's long enough to say, "Go, Regina, I'll catch up in a minute."

She gives in and takes his proffered arm, and they don't talk for the first minute or so, the sounds of the people behind them slowly fading as they walk into the darker hallways.

"Regina," he says once they're alone. "We need to talk about this."

"I like your friends," She tells him, and it's completely different than what he's brought up, but if she's going to have this conversation she needs to have that one first. "I like them a lot. I especially like how they all know me, when I couldn't tell them apart from Britney Spears."

"John's pretty far away from Britney Spears, I think you'd get that one," he says wryly, but stops teasing when he sees her expression. "They're my friends, Regina, so of course they know about you. I talk about things that are important to me."

"And yes," he says when she looks up. "Of course you're important to me. What, d'you think I break out the Shakespeare mug for anyone?"

"Shut up about the damn mug," she says, but she's smiling. "It's a container for drinking beverages, not an organ."

"I'd give you one of those, too."

"You're full of shit."

"You like me, though."

"No, actually, I don't."

"Yes, actually, you do," He shoots back. "Unless kissing means something completely different to you, in which case, my apologies, m'lady."

At the mention of the kiss, she ducks her head down, small smile playing on her lips and god, all he wants to do is kiss her again, kiss her forever.

"You know we're not going to be able to not talk about it, right?"

"We could give it a good faith effort," she says dryly. "Try our damndest."

"Regina," he says slowly, stopping, and she turns around to face him. "Regina, I don't want to not talk about it."

She keeps her head down, and when she opens her mouth again, it's to say, "Where's Roland's mother, Robin?"

"What?"

"You want to talk, let's talk," she says, crosses her arms. "Fine. Where's his mother?"

Robin's jaw tightens. "Gone."

"Are you divorced?"

"Yes. Supposedly, we share custody of Roland. If I knew where she was, maybe we would."

"I'm sorry," she says automatically, because wow, that's shit. She breathes deeply through her mouth. "Okay."

And then she asks, "Do you still love her?"

"No," he says, after a moment. "If I did, we'd still be married."

She nods, but doesn't say anything.

"He likes you, you know," he says, mostly to the ceiling. "I've never seen him latch on to someone that fast."

"Well, you know, I'm a generally likeable person." Regina deadpans. "I'm all fluff."

"Every last bit of you," he nods, and then once again grows serious. "Regina. We need to talk."

"Not here," she shakes her head. "And not now. So go back to your friends. I'm going to go to my car and wait for my roommate. We'll talk Monday."

And with that she leaves, and it goes unsaid that this isn't one of those times he's supposed to follow.

* * *

They don't talk Monday.

He's waiting, outside of her classroom, but she sees him and turns the opposite direction before he sees her, hides out in the copy room until first bell rings.

They don't talk Tuesday, either, or Wednesday, or Thursday, and it's half because it's final quarter and they're both busy as hell and half because Regina is just really fucking good at avoiding conversations she doesn't want to have.

Friday morning, the mug is back on her desk, full to the brim with black coffee, and on the napkin underneath it is scrawled, in familiar handwriting, _she leaves, twitching in her blue, and all the love of me goes out to her._

It's Bukowski; Regina knows, because she once read an entire collection of his poems in college, and normally she just slides the napkins in the drawer beneath her desk, lets them accumulate so she can look at them, if ever she feels so inclined, but this one-

this one, she folds nicely and discreetly slides into the pocket of her slacks.

* * *

"Dr. L," Victor says timidly, during their indoor lunch the next Monday. "You okay?"

"Finish your worksheet, Victor," he says, perhaps a bit sharper than usual, which is probable confirmation that he's not okay, actually.

"It's just," Victor continues. "You seem upset, is all. And no one's seen Professor Mills around, lately, so-"

"Failing to see how any of this is at all your business, or any of your businesses, for that matter," Robin says, widening his comment up to the entire room. "But I'll bite. Why does the fact that Professor Mills hasn't been round in awhile matter to my personal happiness?"

"Aren't you two," Victor begins awkwardly, clearing his throat. "Y'know. Together?"

"Again. None of anybody's business, but no."

There's a disbelieving murmur around the room.

"But you're _in love_ with her," Ruby says, perfectly manicured nails tapping against the wooden desk. "You're not together?"

"Excuse me, I'm _what_, exactly?"

"Dr. Locksley," his quietest student, August, speaks up, shocking most of the room into the attention. "You're very much in love with her. No disrespect, sir, but everybody knows. Teachers have a pool."

He's torn between anger and indignation and surprise and something that's maybe a bit closer to relief than it should be. "You're all insane. And this is highly inappropriate."

"No offense, Dr. L," Ashely Boyd says, "but you're the insane one, if you don't realize it."

"She might be frigid and cruel-" Ruby begins.

"She's neither frigid nor cruel, Ruby, honestly, do you _want_ another detention?"

"-but you love her. So you should tell her. Mark Sloan would tell you to do the same thing." She finishes with a smirk.

"I'm sorry, did you just make a _Grey's Anatomy_ reference?"

"Tell her, Dr. L," Ruby rolls her eyes. "Aren't English majors supposed to believe in love?"

* * *

_Yes_, he thinks, once the students have left and it's just him, alone in his room.

_Yes_, _I suppose they are._

* * *

So he does it. He finally catches up to her that afternoon.

"Regina," he says, walking into her classroom as her final hour is filtering out. "We're talking about this. I know you've been avoiding me, but. It's happening. We kissed. It happened."

(At the mention of the word kiss, some bright-eyed freshmen stop in their tracks, but Robin's too busy to care.)

"Yes," she says, eyes trained on the homework she's collecting. "It did happen."

"I'd like for it to happen again, yeah? A lot. Preferably once a minute, or second, or whatever, you know, that's just me."

"Why?" She says, still refusing to look up.

"Why the hell d'you think?" He snorts. "Because I've got this massive amount of feelings, Regina Mills, enough feelings that I feel like I'm loosing my damn mind every time I so much as breathe, and every single fucking one of those feelings is directed towards you. And I'd like to know what you want me to do with them."

"What does it matter what I want?" She says, eyes determinedly locked on the papers before her.

"Because the things I want involve me, you, and monogamy, and those are things we both kind of need to want, in order for them to work out."

"Here's the issue with that." She flips her paper. "I'm not you, Robin. I don't belong to you. You don't belong to me. I like math, formulas, equations, _structure_, and you like saying _'to hell with it all'_ and English. We're not compatible."

"Bull_shit_," he says, and her mouth forms a perfect 'o'.

"What?"

"You heard me. _Bullshit_. That's complete and utter bullshit, because you and I both know that being compatible does not equate to being identical. It doesn't mean you don't fight, or get angry; it means that when you're mad, when you're pissed off, and angry and you just want to leave, you stay, because you know it's worth it. And trust me, I've been mad at you, and if I'm honest, I'm pretty pissed right now, but I know that this, _us_, is worth it."

She's clearly flustered, doesn't know what to say. "You're awfully confident," she finally gets out.

"I get to be," he says. "Because I spent a school year falling for you, Regina, and I want to take you out on dates and introduce you to my son again, because I think he's grown out of pulling hair. I want my friends to know you, not stories. And I want to know your friends, and your childhood and everything you think you might want to tell me. I want to read you poems, long, sappy poems, just to hear you laugh when you make fun of them. I want it all, Regina. And I want it with you."

She still isn't looking at him, but her hand is hovering over the paper. "What exactly are you saying, Robin?"

"Isn't it bloody obvious?"

"If I have to ask you to clarify, we can assume it is not."

"Then let me be frank," he says. "I hate math."

The muscles in her arm tense.

"I love you," he says, and she finally looks up.

* * *

"Okay," is what she says.

"I love you, too," is what she means, and it's what he hears.

She stands up, finally, walks around the desk until she's standing in front of him, and she says, "Okay. Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay-"

He kisses her, and he tastes forever on his tongue.

_Eternity was in our lips and eyes_, he thinks.

* * *

He's Dr. Robin Locksley, Junior English.

She's Professor Regina Mills, Freshman Geometry.

And they're just a little bit in love.

* * *

"Dr. L!" Ruby squeals three weeks later, when she walks in on them kissing in his classroom after hours. "You did it! McSteamy would be proud!"

Robin closes his eyes and breathes a long-suffering sigh. Regina's laughter is soft, and he can feel it vibrate against his hand on her side.

"What are you _doing_ here, Ruby-"

"I _totally knew it_!" She's practically bouncing up and down. "You _have_ to let me tweet this, Dr. L, it's like, your _duty_-!"

"_RUBY_-"

Regina's hand splays across his chest, stopping him.

"Ruby," she says. "Give us a second, would you?"

And with a squeal and a smirk, she leaves.

Robin's head comes down and rests in the crook between Regina's neck and shoulder. "Bloody _hell_," he says, and it tickles against her skin. "This is just painful."

"It's worth it, though," Regina says, actually -dare she say it- affectionate. "Don't you think?"

And the smile she feels against her skin is answer enough.

* * *

_"If I'm honest, I fell for you that first night." _

* * *

**come say hi on tumblr; it's shortwillrule :)**


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